


Going All In

by Umbrella_ella



Series: It's Easier to Say It to the Dark [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Floor Sex, Smut, When are they going to get to a bed?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and Melinda discuss what happened in his office. Well, there's talking involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going All In

**Author's Note:**

> Look, another smut! I'm so proud. Anyways, leave you your comments, thoughts, questions below and let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy it!

It’s early when she finds him in the gym, probably five, his form excellent as he skips across the mat, the hard smack of glove and bag the only sound in the still, otherwise abandoned gym.

Melinda’s footsteps are quiet, but even if her feet are bare, he hears her padding across the mats, and he turns slightly, greeting her wordlessly with a nod as he continues.

She watches him, and if she wonders if he minds. It gives her the chance to watch as a bead of sweat slips below the top of his tank and imagine herself there instead, his lips and tongue trailing down her throat, down to—

“You can join me, if you want,” he says suddenly, and his voice is low and soft, and she is still mesmerized by him, enchanted by the way he shifts behind her, his hands gentle at her waist, adjusting her stance so that the slope of her hips will match his, raising her arms an inch higher so she feels her shoulders stretch, and then he is gone.

Melinda secrets him a small half-smile, and Phil grins back.

“Just like old times.”

“You’re right— I can still knock you on your ass.”

“But what a view I get from all the way down there,” he laughs, and then they’re quiet again, breathing in the quiet, still air, and feeling the weight of their companionship anew. His hits are tame, more like shadowboxing than anything else, and she enjoys correcting his stance now and again, if only to see the furrow in between his eyebrows disappear.

When they’re done, Phil retrieves a towel for her, and watches as she swipes the sweat from her neck. She should say something, but instead, she watches as his smile stretches, and she tries not to kiss him.

“We should talk,” she mutters, bending to drop the towel into her gym bag, and she almost misses the way his shoulders drop a fraction. Almost.

“Yeah, we should.” He sounds defeated.

“About earlier… Phil, I—”

“I know, it was a mistake, it won’t— I’m sorry.” His breathing is shallow and she feels her heart stutter in her chest, and it feels like she can’t breathe right. _Sorry?_

"Are you?” Melinda hates that her voice is so broken and small, she hates how he stares at her, with open, trusting eyes, and she hates how he’s so close but doesn’t touch her, because all she wants is to feel him again. She wants him— all of him. Melinda May is in love with the man who had been the constant by her side, with the man she had sworn never to hurt. And yet, she would. She had once.

People like her weren’t meant to love— she was a time bomb, and as surely as she was going to explode, he was going to get hurt.

He steps closer, and she feels the rough pad of his thumb on the back of her hand, rubbing soothing circles. She loves him, but he cannot want her.

She shifts her hand out of his grip, and stares at the mats beneath their feet, noticing how Phil’s pinkie toe on his left foot curls in slightly.

He is close, she can feel his body heat, and her gaze is level with his mouth and it is not helping, his pink lips full and frowning and she can remember what he tasted like and then he is kissing her and this will never not be surprising and she will never not fall for this and she loves him, _she loves him she loves him_ and she can’t stop loving him because who could and his hands are smoothing over her abdomen, trailing lines he had burned into her skin only hours ago and she loves him.

He presses her to him and she grabs onto the only part of him she can— his shirt— and sweeps her tongue against his lower lip, needing more, wanting more, wanting all of him. He tastes like blueberries and sweat and orange juice and she hums at the way his tongue finds hers, gently this time— and this time they are soft and slow and gentle, and she remembers the way his teeth felt nipping at her lip and her hands dip to the small of his back, and she can feel the sticky sweat beneath her palms. 

Phil grins against her cheek when they part— she can feel the tilt of his upturned lips against her skin—and she is buzzing with hyperawareness.

“No, no, I’m not sorry. I’m just sorry that we didn’t do it properly.” His face is flushed and his voice is gravelly and his tank is still scrunched in her hands and she is very aware of the way his lips are swollen and bruised, and she wants _him._

Melinda takes a moment, just a split second, before the blood is roaring in her ears and she feels like she is on top of the world.

“Properly?” His hands find hers and his palms are soft and his fingers are warm as he smiles that lopsided half-smile of his.

“I— I wanted to make you dinner. To—” He flushes, and she almost laughs at the way his ears redden beneath the fluorescent lights of the gym.

“To…?”

“Woo you. To— apologize for everything, to…”

Melinda nearly laughs at the hopeless look on his face as he struggles for words.

So she shuts him up the easy way. The feel of him there, against her is solid, reassuring, and she needs him. His lips are clumsy as he moves to kiss every bit of skin he can reach, and she laughs as his fingertips trail up her sides, sliding beneath the soft cotton of her shirt, and she decides that there is no better feeling than this.

His tongue darts out to taste the tang of sweat that is just below her left ear, and she decides that she has never needed him as much as she does now. She knows what his skin feels like, she knows how his moans sound muffled by her skin, and she wants so much more than this. His breath is hot on her neck and he cups her ass, pulling her closer, and she feels him hard against her stomach. It only takes a few seconds to get the majority of their clothes off this time, because before she knows it, Phil’s bare chest is exposed, and her lips and tongue and teeth are tracing the familiar lines of his scars and nipping at his collarbone and his eyes are screwed shut and his breathing is shallow, and she wonders if he’s as sensitive as she is now. She drags her lips across one nipple, and then the other, feeling a rush of warmth at the way he whines and his fingers clutch at the fabric of her tank, eager to get it off.

She steps back slightly, but her hips are still pressed to his thighs and she can feel his heat mingling with her own and she smells the sweat and the _pure need_ that crackles in the air between them.

Phil slings her shirt away with so much force, Melinda wonders if she’ll even find it later, but she brushes the thought away as his hands work at pulling her sports bra up and over her head, and then the cool air hits her breasts and she watches him trace the curve of her breast with his eyes, and she watches as his fingers twitch at his sides, and she grabs his hand, his palm warm and firm and soft all at the same time, and draws it to her breast, letting him cup her.

He looks up at her, the question plain as day in his eyes, and somehow, between the heat of lust and the thundering of her heart and the want she has for him, she manages to answer.

“Yes. I’m— Please.”

Melinda might have been shocked once upon a time at her manners, the way she almost _begs_ him, but she doesn’t care because Phil’s lips are tracing the most _exquisite_ patterns around her nipples and the ache between her legs is building and building, and she’s sure she won’t last long and she needs him inside of her. Tugging at his workout pants— sweats this time— she notes, she is pleased when they pool at his feet quickly and she cups him through his shorts.

She hears his grunt against her chest, feels the way his voice vibrates through her, and then his fingers are tracing lines on her inner thigh, coming _so close_ to her, but he moves his fingers away every time.

“Not fair.” She whines as she bucks against his hand, and he draws away, pulling her yoga pants down and kneeling in front her as he toys with the band of her underwear. He grins up at her from his position.

“You aren’t playing fair, either, Melinda,” his voice is gravelly and low, barely more than a hum, but she hears him.

“Asshole.”

He hums at that, not agreeing with her, but not disagreeing with her either— he’s more interested in the skin above her hip, where a shallow dip begs to be kissed and she lets her eyes flutter shut as his lips cool and wet, meet the hot, dry skin, and she curls her hands into his hair, the short strands bunching beneath her fingers. Phil’s fingers are nimble and she is relieved when he pulls her underwear down, and she hears him suck in a breath.

“You’re so beautiful, Melinda, my god, you’re so beautiful,” she hears somewhere below her, and he sounds like he might cry. His voice is full and sincere, so she chances a look at him, stooped to better see all her, and his eyes are wide with awe. His thumb traces a scar on her left hip absentmindedly, and she doesn’t know what to say. Phil’s honest, it’s a redeeming quality of his (of which there are many), and he’s never lied to her.

His eyes are full of awe and lust and _love_ , and she’s a little afraid, but they’re here and there’s no going back now. Melinda runs her fingers through his hair again, and she pushes him down to the floor, and he’s on his back, his face eager, and his lips tugged into an infuriating grin. Melinda joins him, sitting atop him, and the cotton of his boxers creates friction on her bare skin. She rises above him a bit, letting him take his boxers off, and sits on his thighs, watching as his manhood stands tall and erect, and she palms him, bare skin on bare skin, and she watches Phil’s face twist into a grimace, his breaths short and thready and uneven and his hips twitch beneath her, pushing himself into her hand as she strokes him.

“Melin—da.” She lets go and he presses his head back into the mat, and she watches with a devious smile as the fabric bends beneath the weight of their bodies together. When Phil regains enough sense, his grin is mischievous and a light dances in his hazel eyes, and she finds herself on her back, he above her, their positions switched, and his cock is brushing her clit and she just wants more.

It takes her a few seconds to register that he’s said anything, but she hears the rise and fall of the timbre of his voice, and her head clears in time to hear the last of his question.

“…trust me?”

She nods, because even at the end of the world, even when she is falling apart, she trusts him to catch her, and she trusts him with her life. Maybe she’ll get the chance to remind him of that later, but for now, as his fingers press into her, filling her up, his thumb finding her clit, she barely remembers to breathe.

Her hips jerk and he grins at her, and her eyes are half-lidded and she sighs and moans and pushes against his hand, his fingers working as she slams her eyes shut, his name sputtering from her lips, barely understandable, and then his fingers are gone and she twists and whines and she wants more. Maybe she’s greedy, but she wants _more._ Her vision is white beneath her eyelids and she feels Phil at her entrance, and when his cocks sinks into her, she is already so close.

This is not about control, not this time; this time it’s about pleasure and lust and sensation and breaking down walls and _feeling._ So she gives in, and within a few movements, a few pumps of him inside of her, she is on the edge, toppling down like a tower of dominoes, and she breaks and falls and he catches her, his hands on her face, and his lips on her forehead, her sharp cry turning to heady gasps of relief. He spills into her with one more push and she doesn’t miss the way her name falls from his lips, and he holds himself above her with shaky arms, kissing her soundly, deeply.

Phil’s body hits the mats with a solid thud, and his hand is curled around her stomach as he presses kisses to her skin, her shoulder, elbow, hand, collarbone, anywhere he can reach, and he says what he meant to say, what he needs to say, and she doesn’t stop him.

“I love you.” His voice is soft, strained, and his arms tense around her middle as he waits. Melinda turns to him, offering what she hopes is a reassuring look before gripping his hand in hers.

She doesn’t say it back, not because she doesn’t, but because now’s not the right time, not here, in the gym, surrounded by the smell of sex and sweat and lust, and she wants to make sure he knows she means it. So, she saves the sentiment for later, tucks it away for future use, and says something else with more meaning.

“You mean a lot to me. A lot.” She swears he laughs at that as he gives her one last kiss before gathering their clothes.

“We really should stop doing things backwards, you know.” He remarks from the corner, where she suspects he’s hunting for her bra, and she laughs.

“Make me breakfast and we’re even.”

“Deal.”


End file.
